i wonder

i found a note i wrote. a single, narrow page, scrawled with black ink and the love of a heart bleeding with hope. the year before last i wrote it. folded it. slid it into a pocket, behind scrawled pages, behind times and places, in the very back of my diary.

the note smells like leather and youth.

the note, unfound, until now.

it’s a note. written with naivety, behind that rose-coloured glass that makes everything so glorious, behind the romanticism of a single unhinged moment. without fear or worry or confusion.